Playing God
by TheProfoundSilence
Summary: John loved helping people, he really did. It was just that he sometimes took it too far. Dark!John


**So, this is an unconventional sort of dark! John fic that crept up on me and now just wouldn't let go. Hope you guys enjoy!**

His mother had been crying. It was an unusual enough occurrence considering she was a grown-up and generally speaking had little to cry about. With a modest but comfortable income and a caring attentive husband and two smart kids, she was fortunate than most, and knew it too.

So when she cried, Harry, despite her swagger got scared off enough to rush away with a hasty excuse. Little John Watson sat next to her mother's side and hugged her. He could now barely remember what had got her crying, but he could recall with crystal clarity the small smile that graced her features and the minute relaxing of her body at his fumbling attempts to calm her down.

John practically floated around after that. Any discomfort he might have had due to her tears was cancelled a hundred times over with the wonderful feeling of knowing he had helped to wipe away someone's tears, that he had been needed. It was an exhilarating feeling, nothing like John had ever experienced before.

At night as lay in bed, he decided he'd grow up to help other people. And from a child's minimalistic career choices, he chose 'Doctor'.

Doctor-in-training John Watson was adored, not just because of his nice laid-back smile, but also by his willingness to help at the oddest of times. While fellow students grumbled at the odd times they had been awoken to cater to yet another injury or sickness, John Watson was enthused enough to even take on others' cases if requested nicely enough.

They whispered that he'd go far, and he smiled and agreed, but honestly, _who cared anyway? _Doctors were meant to help people. And that was all he cared about.

John enjoyed being a doctor, perhaps a bit too much, someone had once commented a bit suspiciously but honestly, nothing ever really came of it. He was too nice to even contemplate going against. It's not like being too good is illegal. John Watson was good and appreciated and well-liked, and anyone who contested it came across as a jealous bastard.

Despite it all, he joined the army on a whim.

(It wasn't a whim _honestly_. He had a frequent patient, Miss Anna Swan who he had suspected was being abused but hadn't said a word because she was a terrific patient and he really _enjoyed _being needed by her. People wouldn't understand, it's nothing sexual. He just likes it. When the higher-ups realized his screw-up, they were highly sympathetic to his naivety. He wasn't half as pleased with himself.)

It was, John was coming to realize, a superhuman task to care for Sherlock. And yet, yet there was no one else he wanted to care for more. It thrilled him when the genius detective ate at his behest when he otherwise wouldn't have. Sherlock was a force of nature, wild and chaotic and so utterly beautiful and people ran from disasters and storms because they were _always_ so scared.

John wasn't scared, he was intrigued, delighted, impressed. He had stood in the eye of the storm and been found worthy. It was the most exhilarating feeling, better than playing god and weighing lives. Better than the surgery and Afghanistan, Sherlock was his _everything._

John had never believed in soul-mates before, but Sherlock, he had decided, was just for him, just his.

Meal-times were spent coaxing the detective, _One bite, Sherlock. Just one. For me, please._ Nights were calm, sometimes. Sometimes they were musical and many-a-times downright violent. And damn, was he _addicted. _To their unpredictable lifestyle and bright days.

He lost count of the number of times he sat and tended to bruising skin and bleeding wounds. He spent several nights in hospitals, neck cracking and brows worried. And he could now actually shoot people who threatened what was his. And people stood around and whispered how good he was, how nice he was to have tamed a genius sociopath for them.

It was his life, in the finest and best of ways. And he was more than content.

John fingered the ropes wrapped around his wrists and resisted a grin. In their haste to get back to the Consulting Detective, those morons had made a mistake, neglecting John as nothing more than a simple side-kick. Just a light twist of the wrists and the ropes would fall free, easy.

And if it had been any other day, John would have done it. He had a plan of action, and there were only three of them and amateur to boot. Even their managing to corner them in an alleyway, and consequently to a dark clichéd warehouse, had been more a stroke of luck than anything else. He could do it, jump up and be the hero, protect Sherlock and beat the bad guys.

And normally, it would be enough. They'd rush back home, giggling and euphoric, thinking of yet another whirlwind case they had just had, and it would be so very, very good. He no longer felt any darker urges, didn't want to hinder his own patients' recovery if he liked them too much, didn't want to hurt people he loved just to put them back together.

Because now, the person he loved most in the world was Sherlock. And his favourite patient was Sherlock. And his entire world was Sherlock. And Sherlock was reckless enough for John to not have to sabotage their beautiful life just to sate his urges. What he usually did was quite enough, more than, actually.

But this time a decent case had demanded his attention out in the country, and John had his locum work, important enough for him to reluctantly beg off and mundane enough to be hellish. And hellish it had been. Ordinary illnesses and unsatisfactory patients followed by copious amounts of paper-work. And no Sherlock. He had trudged to the surgery, treated whiney patients and stared longingly at his phone, then walked back takeaway in hand. A perfectly calm, boring picture-perfect life that he absolutely _hated_.

And he realized it in a flash of dreaded insight. _It wouldn't be enough_, he panicked. _Not after so long._ He imagined going home and getting to bed after their laughs and giggles and getting in alone and a wave of loneliness crashed over him. _Not enough._ He wanted to be close right now, heal Sherlock's scars, hold his soul, be the one to make him smile, stop him hurting. It was all his. And he hadn't gotten to indulge in _god, so long. _

He kept his head down, showed no sign of waking up but kept his hands on the ropes, ready to slip away at a moment's notice. He then strained his ears to hear the sound of the three thugs roughing up the Detective and his defiant cold protests.

He'd step in if it went too far. But it was okay for a bit, wasn't it?

Just the thought of tending to Sherlock again made him shiver.

He'd indulge himself. _Just this once._

**So, it's been quite a while since I posted anything that I had written well with my heart in it. Alas, I am not that proud of this one, either. Just a one-shot that wouldn't let me go. That being said, I am working on something very special. It may take some time because I'm just too busy nowadays, but I'll post only once I've written most, if not all of it to ensure regular postings.**

**Many, many thanks to all of you out there who've stuck with me through thick and thin, and reviewed and read diligently (You know who I'm talking about. Not naming in case I accidentally miss out anyone.) I never thought I'd have loyal readers and it made me so, so happy when I realized that I did. This one is definitely for you guys.**


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